


Between the Garden and Golgotha

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Biblical References, Gen, Pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three of Sherlock's closest followers in the early hours before the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Garden and Golgotha

Mycroft sat alone in the Diogenes Club sipping his drink. The club was blessedly quiet during regular hours, but there was a different kind of silence in the emptiness. It was pointless. He’d come in vain. He’d hoped to find some kind of respite, from the blaming stares, from Anthea’s polite reminders, from John’s terrible terrible wounded anger. Alone, however, the guilt was worse. He was far too practical to ever be a religious man, but at that moment he thought he felt the presence of God, a crushing sense of judgement filling the room.

Mycroft Holmes had sold out his brother, and he hadn’t even got his thirty pieces.

xxxxx

“I didn’t have any part of that! I- I don’t even know the man!” Lestrade protested. The Chief Superintendent didn’t look convinced. “If you don’t know him, why the hell did you let him walk all over your crime scenes?” Lestrade didn’t answer immediately. They both knew it wasn’t the time for that argument.

“I’ve got an escaped suspect to catch,” he said finally, and shouldered on his jacket. He’d face his punishment later.

He admired the eerie beauty of London by twilight. He told himself he was looking for Sherlock, but he knew that was useless. He wasn’t really sure what he’d do if he found him, anyway. The events of the last few days blurred together— the Moriarty case, the kidnapped children, Sherlock’s arrest and dramatic escape. What little sleep he’d had seemed nonexistent now.

“Sorry, mate!” An unfamiliar voice jerked him out of his thoughts. He’d bumped into someone, another late night/early morning traveler. “Hey,” the stranger continued, “I know you. Seen your picture in the papers. You’re the one who hangs out with that detective guy, yeah? Not the short one, though. The copper. Detective Inspector summat.”

Lestrade shook his head and took a step back. “No, that’s— that’s not me. Never met the man.” He tried to smile.

The stranger shrugged. “Dead ringer for the face in the papers, then,” he said, and continued on his way. Lestrade turned around and walked very quickly in the opposite direction.

He stepped into a all-night cafe and easily found an empty table. The morning crowd was just beginning to drift inside in a caffeine-deprived fog. Maybe a coffee would help him to clear his mind and focus.

“Here you go, dear,” said the waitress, setting a steaming cup in front of him. Lestrade smiled at her gratefully dug in his pocket for cash. “Oh, don’t you worry, it’s on the house today,” she added. “Lord knows what you do isn’t easy, but you made the right decision bringing in that dreadful Sherlock character.” She nodded at the television on the wall, which was playing an announcement that Holmes was considered armed and extremely dangerous.

“No, you’ve got me confused.” His face was on the television, from some press release or other, while the voiceover continued to talk about Sherlock’s suspected crimes. “That’s not me. I don’t know him. I don’t have anything to do with him. Just… let me pay for the coffee, alright?”

As he counted out the coins, he heard a familiar tolling. The television show had moved on to its next topic, the Tower of Big Ben visible in the background proclaiming the hour. The first rays of dawn made their way through the cafe window, and Gregory Lestrade knew that he had abandoned Sherlock to his fate.

xxxxx

Morning broke across London without any regard for the events the day would bring. John had rushed to help Mrs. Hudson when he got the call. Now that he’d arrived and seen that she was fine, he understood what was going on. Well, part of it, anyway. It could have been that someone just wanted him out of the way.

It could have been Sherlock’s way of telling him that he and Mrs. Hudson needed to look after each other.

He was a witness. He believed. He would spread the word.

And at the end of the third day or month or year, he would be ready.


End file.
